


Behind the Door

by PetraTodd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sad Sherlock, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:29:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3454076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetraTodd/pseuds/PetraTodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sees Lestrade in an alley alongside a pub, kneeling over freshly spilled blood and he knows it's over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Door

**Author's Note:**

> For Lory, who wanted a story with unrequited Sherstrade, where Sherlock's feelings aren't returned for a change.

Sherlock sees him in an alley alongside a pub, kneeling over freshly spilled blood and he knows it's over. And with the mad rush of heat running through him, he's not even sorry.

For ten years, the ice has grown inside him, cultured and carefully encouraged with meditation. He doesn't believe in the romantic idea that any emotions are based in the heart, but nonetheless it is the organ he visualizes encased in sheets of cold. In his mind, the walls thicken around it, tentacles of frost slithering through ventricles and valves. The ice seeps into his arteries until the calm coldness flows through his body and he becomes impervious. His mind works now unimpeded by the pumping of his heart.

Or so he thinks, until he's summoned to a crime scene one autumn night, and feels something flickering in his chest and lower in his gut. Sensing Sherlock's shadow looming over him, the silver-haired man frowning at the puddle of blood looks up. "Who the hell is this?" he barks to a brunette jotting notes.

"Dunno. Got identification?" Her tone is sharp, her dark eyes assessing Sherlock's expensive wool coat. "Smells like press. You lot need to stay behind the barriers."

"Flawed deduction, Sergeant..." His eyes find her I.D. clipped to her coat."Donovan. I was called in. By D.I. Jones. My name is Sherlock Holmes. Call Jones if you need to."

"Oh right! It's fine, Sally." The detective waves her off. "Jones mentioned you were coming- I forgot in the mess." He stands and grins, while stripping off his vinyl gloves and disposing of them. The light from the neon pub sign catches the wrinkles around his eyes and the dimple in his cheek. "Lestrade." He offers his hand.

 _Ice,_ Sherlock reminds himself desperately but it's no use. His right hand slides into Lestrade's tight grip, and he's still marveling at the textures of his warm calloused palm when the handshake is over.

"So do you want to take a look at the scene? Athelney says you're the best, and this is an odd one. I've never seen anything like it, to be honest."

"I've seen what I need to see." Sherlock scans the alley again, taking in the narrow brick framework of the area, the splatters of dark fluid, and the scattered rubbish.

"Have any thoughts on this?"

"A few." Sherlock taps his mouth.

"Great. Tell me then." Lestrade's eyes light up.

"Here? Now?"

The detective wrinkles his nose and grabs hold on Sherlock's arm to steer him out of the alley. "Nah. We're done here, the team will clean up. There's a little restaurant a few streets away. Let's get a cuppa there and chat."

 _I can't,_ is the response that nearly comes from his lips. He's not sure where to put his eyes already. Is he holding Lestrade's gaze too long? Is he lingering too long on his upturned lips? He can never tell. It's exhausting and infuriating. But the desire to simply stay in the detective's presence is too strong. He finds himself nodding and letting the man guide him into his car.

* * *

"Athelney says you're a genius. That so?" Lestrade is still adding milk to his tea when the questions start.

Sherlock stirs sugar into his coffee, and shrugs. "Yes." He blows on the steaming drink and breathes deeply in through his nose, letting the comforting smell of it override the stale scent of the late-night restaurant. "I'll need to see the case file, but I can tell you you're looking for a man who didn't know the victim before tonight but gained his trust quickly. A man with military experience in Canada or the United States. You could probably work that part out for yourself if you study the knots. There was a pack of cigarettes on the ground-"

"We saw that. It's the victim's brand," Lestrade interrupts him. "We'll check for prints and DNA, of course."

"Of course. But that pack wasn't the victim's. You're going to find the tobacco inside the victim's stomach. It was around his lips. He made him eat it. It's part of the game. The murder was planned- he brought that pack with him. The patterns of ash on the ground were very distinct." Sherlock meets his eyes. "When can I see the file?"

Lestrade relaxes into the booth, sipping his drink. "Come by tomorrow afternoon. You can read it in my office. I can't leave you with it or let you take it with you, you understand. We're bending some rules here, but I think catching a murderer's a bit more important."

Sherlock envisions sitting with the detective in a small office, Lestrade watching Sherlock work. There's something unbearably intimate about it. He gulps down the rest of his coffee. "Right, that's that. I'll be off then."

"Whoa, mate, what's the rush?" Lestrade lifts his tea. "I'll give you a ride back to Montague Street. You won't get a taxi this time of night. So tell me about yourself. How'd you meet D.I. Jones? I think he said something about your brother?"

"There's not much to say." Sherlock tries to summon the ice but it's hopeless. The walls crack, and he feels himself sink into his seat. He cradles the coffee cup, sipping auotmatically when the server refills it. His palms grow hot and he sets the cup down. "I'm married to my work. I'm not interested in anything else."

"Aww I don't believe that," Lestrade shakes his head. "Did you go to uni?"

"Chemistry," Sherlock nods, and steels himself. "You should know. Since some of the other people from the Met may recognize me and comment- when I was younger I ran into some issues with the law on account of a rather impressive heroin habit. I've no outstanding charges but there you have it. You still interested in working with a junkie?"

Lestrade fixes him with a hard stare. "How long have you been clean?"

"Five years."

"Okay. That's good enough for me. Lot of guys on the job develop habits, you know. People don't like to talk about it, but you see all this bloody shit and death. It takes a toll." Lestrade sips his tea. "You ever feel the urge to slip, you give me a call. I know lots of good people who can help. But if you start using again, you're done for consulting with Scotland Yard. Fair enough?"

Sherlock looks into his eyes, and sits up straight. "Fair enough."

Lestrade reaches across the table, offering his hand.

Sherlock hesitates and sets down his cup. He clasps the detective's hand, and Lestrade squeezes it.

"I think this is the beginning of a great friendship."

Lestrade beams and Sherlock hates himself for thinking that his smile looks like the sun.

Beneath the table, a rock singer croons something rough and unfamiliar.

"Shit, that's my mobile." Lestrade drops his hand and reaches for his phone in his pocket. Flipping it open, he listens for a moment and then responds, "Yes I know it's late. It's work, sweetie. You know how it is. I'll be home in twenty minutes. I promise."

In Sherlock's stomach, the fluttering becomes a faint flicker, and then dies with a thud.

Lestrade closes the phone and sighs.

Sherlock's eyes skim the detective's hands. "You don't wear a ring. Or have a tan line from one."

"We were separated for six months," Lestrade says. Digging into his pockets, he produces a dull gold band and slips it onto his fourth finger.

"I suppose the lines faded. And I don't wear it at crime scenes. The gloves, ya know. It's...been a rough road, but being married to a copper always is. She's giving me another shot." He grinned. "I love her a lot. The kids are really happy about us gettin back together." "

"Sure, who wouldn't be." He doesn't bother to hide the boredom from his voice. "This has been charming, Lestrade, but I have to be on my way."

He drops his card on the table, and stands. "I'll text about stopping by to see the files sometime later this week." With as much calmness as he can call upon, he strolls out of the restaurant ignoring the detective's protests about giving him a ride home.

It takes him thirty minutes to find a taxi willing to drive across the city to his flat, but by the time he does, the cold of the night has chilled his fingers into numbness. He presses his fingers to his lips, blowing on them but he's still shivering when he gets home.

Slicing the new case information into bits of data to be arranged in his mind palace, Sherlock stays up all night. He puts off thinking of Lestrade until he can't delay it anymore. When he comes to the detective, he considers what to keep, and what to throw away, but Sherlock is frozen with indecision. The pieces of Lestrade are too large for filed bites of info, but too uncomfortable to be allowed to wander free in his mind.

In the end, Sherlock creates a new room, a small one with an oaken door and tucks everything that Lestrade is into the room. The door is solid and polished into golden-brownness, and whenever he passes the door in his mind palace, his fingers slide across it, his fingertips burning for just a moment with the heat of the touch.


End file.
